Mirror Image
by Stained Glass Rose
Summary: Draco sees far too much of himself in his eldest son to think Altair can accept a failure for a father, especially when he knows his mother could've had Harry Potter for a husband. Gen with background D/G. OMC. AU: EWE. One-shot.


**Mirror Image**

**Disclaimer:** The words are mine, as is Altair Malfoy, but the _Harry Potter_ universe and its characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, et al.  
**Content Notes: **Mild cursing and paternal angst. I've thrown in a couple little details from the universe I share with my friend, Becca, who came up with the idea that Ginny has a tattoo on her wrist commemorating the end of the war and more particularly, Fred.

* * *

Draco had once been able to see himself in his eldest son. If he were honest, he still could, but not because Altair had accepted the similarities between them. On the contrary, he'd tried to erase them, but the Malfoy traits always told and he'd been born with those alone. The freckles had come later and as a child, he'd been pleased to have his father's pale skin and pale hair, to be different from his little brother, to be a Malfoy. At some point, Altair had changed his mind. Ginny told Draco rebellion was only natural—and she should know, but he knew even better. He might not have had six brothers, but he'd had a father just like him—a father with a Mark on his arm and scars on his flesh and a warped sense of right and wrong. Draco had disavowed Lucius Malfoy, like Altair meant to disavow him.

Draco had started with his look. It had been easiest-easier, at least, than a disavowal of his father's principles, though it had only been a matter of time after he cut his hair, cleared the dress robes from his closet, and cast his signet rings off like so much trash. Draco didn't think his father had seen the change for what it was or else, he hadn't thought it would last. Perhaps, it wouldn't have if Lucius had resumed his place in the world. Perhaps, Draco could've been convinced; perhaps he could've been made to forget, but it had been too easy to remember the captivity and crying and corpses—every day, another corpse that he wouldn't have seen if not for his father. He'd told himself that he wouldn't have been alive, either, but it rang hollow like Lucius Malfoy's legacy. Like his own.

His whole life, Draco had done nothing of note but pick a bloodtraitor for a bride. He'd been too late to do much else; he'd failed to save Crabbe's life and after, he'd been forced out of every committee that could possibly make a difference. He'd been forced into a mould that didn't quite fit—into a role he didn't want—because the world had liked him better as an exile, had found it easier to move on without him, had felt he deserved nothing more from them than the 'not guilty' he'd got. Nearly twenty years later, he still didn't know why Ginny had thought otherwise. Nor, apparently, did his eldest son now that he'd taken his OWLs in History. Now that Altair knew what Draco had done and failed to do. Now Altair wished as fervently as his uncles did that someone else had been his father.

Now he wore his hair mussed, as if he'd never seen a comb or brush—as if Draco had never taught him to use either—and the other day, he'd talked of black dye before his mother had vetoed it. The ploy had been clear enough without a change of hair colour: Potter had been the only one in their acquaintance to walk around with permanent bedhead and if not for Draco, he'd probably have fathered Ginny's first son instead—and all her subsequent children, too. Altair knew it and he knew, moreover, that Harry Potter was a hero like his dad would never be. Mangy, sure, but better mangy than a murderer. He could adopt mangy as his style and did. He wore second-hand t-shirts and faded denim and he put rings not just in his ear, but in his lip. Like he wanted Draco to challenge him. Like it mattered when Draco did.

Altair offered non-responses and rolled his eyes. "You don't get it," he'd say, like a broken record, but Draco did and every time he reproached his son, he reproached himself, too. Never more so than when Altair raised a hand to straighten his collar and his sleeve slid down to reveal an 'H' tattooed on his left arm, an inch or two below his wrist. An H. Like Harry. Like hero. Like 'he should be my father.'

"What in the hells is that?" Draco demanded, blood bright in his cheeks and hot with shameangershame that burned through all his cool and his compassion also.

Altair looked confused because before he'd seen the tattoo, Draco had been about to dismiss his son. It only took a second for Altair to realize why he hadn't and his eyes wide, he clapped a hand over the mark like it could make a difference. He recovered his composure soon enough, raising his chin and folding his arms across his chest. "It's a tattoo," he answered with a sneer that looked a lot like the one Draco had worn at fifteen. His had got much better in the years since, though, and it cowed his son into a slightly petulant concession when he turned the expression back on him. "You and mum have got one."

It didn't help his case.

"You dare mention the Dark Mark in the same breath as that meaningless shit?" Draco asked, his voice flat with anger. "The Dark Lord branded me like an animal and I took it to protect my mother. To ensure that there'd be a legacy for you to spit on. You got your tattoo to shame us." He was shaking with anger. He'd never, ever expected to feel so heartsick again, not with one of his children. Not when they'd given him so much hope, not when they'd been his only hope. "You're a disgrace. It's a _disgrace_ after everything your mother and I have done for you. Nearly two decades on, you think you have a right to-to—"

Altair was white around the mouth, but if Draco checked, he imagined he would be too. Voice raised, he answered, "I do have a right! I'm _fif_teen, Papa. In two years, I'll be on my own: I'll have a job and a flat and—and a vote. I can get a tattoo if I want. Maybe I didn't have to save Mum to earn mine, but that doesn't make me a disgrace." He stood up, apparently unable to contain his anger and Draco was surprised it hadn't occurred to him to do the same as Altair railed at him. "I know I'll never sacrifice as much for the family as you did, Papa, but I'm not a bad son just because I disagree with you or dress 'mangy' or (Merlin forbid) do something different. I'm just not _you_, but I wanted to show I understood at least. It might seem like meaningless shite to you, but it means-it means something to _me_. "

"Watch your language," Draco snarled. "You may be _fifteen_, Altair, but I'm your father. Respect is the least you can offer me in my own house, if pride in your heritage is more than you can manage or any pride at all, for that matter." Altair opened his mouth to retort, but Draco barrelled on. "If you're going to tell me there's anything meaningful behind an 'H,' you can shut your mouth and save it for your mother. She may have the patience that I lack, but Merlin help you if you speak to her anything like you've spoken to me."

"Mum isn't like you," he snapped. Draco couldn't deny the truth of it, but the words still stung. "You don't get it. I deserve respect, too." Draco couldn't decide if he wanted to roll his eyes or wring Altair's neck. "And I have pride. It's not an H, Papa. It's an M. Or a W, I guess. You know, as in Malfoy/Weasley." He lifted his sleeve to prove it when Draco looked dubious. "I got it there because it's in between where Mum has her tattoo and where you have the Mark. I know you don't like to talk about it, but you and Mum and Uncle Fred did a lot for the family. Isn't this, like, the epitome of pride?"

"I was on the opposite side from your uncle, Altair," Draco said, a little at a loss now.

"I'd figured that much out on my own, thanks and I've taken History of Magic, too. Professor Macmillan inspired me to get this, actually. He said a load of rubbish 'bout you, Papa. He called me a 'Death Eater apologist' when I argued with him and he said I'd better get over it before my OWLs if I wanted an A in the class. "

"So you're telling me you failed?"

"I'm telling you thanks, Papa." Altair looked hesitant and perhaps, hopeful, but he plunged on. "You might've made mistakes, but you've always been a good person."

Draco had to clear his throat before he said, "Maybe not always, but you are, Altair. I'm proud of you."

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**Author's Notes: **I was looking for a play-by that matched my image of Draco because neither Tom Felton nor Boyd Holbrook have ever done it for me and I came across a photo of Max Krieger. Between the freckles and the bleach blond hair, he seemed less like Draco and more like the son he'd have with Ginny, albeit a more rebellious son than Draco ever was. I couldn't help but write the conflict I imagined between them. I've never written next-gen before and I rarely write OCs, so I'd love and appreciate any feedback. Thank you for reading.


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